


you have this day

by zealotarchaeologist



Category: Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, bro we are immortal. its ok to cry around me bro, or like the very very beginning of a relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 03:58:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18358148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zealotarchaeologist/pseuds/zealotarchaeologist
Summary: and another, and maybe still another...





	you have this day

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to help christen the sekiro tag with something tender and sweet. sometimes your bf has bugs in him, and that's okay.
> 
> tried to keep it no spoilers more or less so it takes place at some indeterminate point during the game. but before the end of hanbei's questline for obvious reasons. i might do a follow up with that...

“It’s for you.”

Wolf looks at the offered object. It’s a lump of wood, rough edges mostly chipped away into a strange knobbly shape. He takes it, turns it over in his hand. The weight is pleasant, like a child’s toy.

“The sculptor was trying to teach me.” Hanbei rubs the back of his neck. “it’s supposed to be a wolf. See?”

His fingers trace over the supposed snout and ears. Wolf can see it, sort of. If he squints. “Yes. I see.”

Hanbei chuckles at him, warm and raspy. “I’ll get better. It helps pass the time at least, when you’re not here to fight with.”

It’s easy to imagine him sitting with the sculptor, dutifully carving peels of wood away from the block. Wolf rubs his thumb over the smooth texture, tracing the grain. He’s never been one for ornaments, but he can see the appeal in something like this. Simple, but sturdy. “It’s very good.”

He tries to hand it back, but Hanbei refuses. His eyes crinkle up with a smile. “Keep it with you. For luck.”

 

 

He holds his stance, ready to catch the spear with his wooden hand. It comes a second too early. Pierces him with one great lunge. He can feel the tip slide between his ribs before he dies. Again.

He’ll have to practice that one.

 

 

They rest beside the offering box, panting from the exertion of their morning practice. Hanbei has taken no less than ten mortal wounds, and seems no worse for wear. But there’s a point where the pain is too much—a certain strain in his voice that Wolf has learned to recognize. When he calls for them to pause and sit by the shrine, Hanbei accepts with a gracious nod.

They’re resting in peaceful silence when Hanbei turns suddenly and starts looking through the box. “Here, I got—” He produces a fistful of sea-green candies. Sugars from Senpou temple. It’s the ones Wolf really likes, with Gachiin’s blessing. They taste faintly of jasmine.

“…you remembered.”

“They turned up in the box the other day. I thought I’d set them aside for you.”

Wolf bows deeper than he should, suddenly compelled to hide his face. “Thank you for this gift. I promise to put it to good use.”

The mask hides Hanbei’s mouth, but his eyes are smiling. “Enjoy them, too. Don’t the monks say that meditating on the senses is important?” He presses the candies into Wolf’s hands. He freezes for a moment—their hands have never touched before, even when fighting. Suddenly, he’s very aware that Hanbei’s hands are much bigger than his.

Later he holds the candy in his mouth, dissolves it as slow as possible on his tongue. He thinks not about the next fight, but about the cool and sweet sensation. It tastes something like home.

 

 

The gunman manages to catch him in midair, as he’s leaping from a tower. He feels the bullet rip through him, cruel and heavy metal, taking his life with it. His body falls, and dies in the air. Again.

 

 

He leaps over Hanbei’s low sweep, kicks him in the shoulder. Off balance, it’s easy to put his sword through the other man’s neck. He doesn’t even hesitate, and that should bother him. Hanbei is his friend. Even though he’s getting back up now, same as always, he should at least hesitate.

It’s an unsatisfying match. Something is bothering him.

“Why do you hold back?” The blade always stops just short of harming him. Hanbei is a capable fighter—it can only be on purpose. “You know I am immortal too.”

Hanbei keeps his voice light, but his eyes are grim. “I wouldn’t wish this pain on you.”

“I am not a stranger to pain.”

“…you are a different sort of immortal.” He’s referring to the dragon’s heritage, to the rot that spreads further with each death.

But suddenly it seems very important to see this through, worth taking the risk.  “One more death will not matter.”

“I don’t…” He cuts himself off, hesitation in his eyes. Wolf takes the opening. He reaches out with his flesh hand, takes him by the shoulder so he can’t turn away. His body really is warm after all. “It will aid me. Show me your strength.”

Hanbei locks eyes with him for a long, lingering moment. Then he sighs and reaches for his sword. “Just once, to one death. Make it count.”

“To one death. Like mortal men.”

They start three paces apart, swords drawn. Then Hanbei rushes him, eyes hard, swinging his blade down in a harsh and heavy arc. Wolf throws himself backwards, narrowly avoiding being caught on the upswing. He slashes back, four moves in quick succession. Hanbei blocks them all, but it’s not without cost.

Wolf can see the strain in his arm. He’ll go on the offense now, get space to recover—and he does, swinging with a wide swipe that nearly slices his throat. They both step back barely outside the reach of each other’s blades, circling like wolves.

Hanbei drops his blade low, but shinobi are trained to watch the whole body. He’s going to grab with his other arm. Wolf punishes him for it, ducks around his arm and stabs through his exposed side to his heart.

Except he doesn’t.

With the tip of the blade pressed to Hanbei’s skin, he hesitates.

Hanbei takes the opportunity to run him through. His sword goes through to the hilt. It’s strange to be held so closely as he dies.

The heavy scent of blossoms fills his head as he returns to life, his blood bidding him onward to fight for his master. Hanbei’s hand is on his back, helping him up.

“I’m sorry.”

Wolf shakes his head. “Do not apologize for your skill.” Adrenaline courses through him. It’s been some time since a fight stirred him with thrill and not with fear.

They stand very close now. Hand still on his back, Hanbei pulls a woven pill case from his belt and offers Wolf a medicinal pellet. He refuses it with a shake of his head. His wounds aren’t that bad. It is the difference in their conditions: he always comes back healed and clean, maybe a little winded but with no mark of whatever blade felled him. Hanbei is always in pain. “You always want to give me things.” He murmurs, his tongue loosened by the exhilaration of death.

“All the lost things here should at least be of some use.”

Wolf averts his eyes. It’s hard to say why it bothers him so much when Hanbei talks about himself like that. He’s a shinobi, he understands what it means to be a tool.

He relents and takes the medicine, if only to make him feel better.

 

 

Again. A blunted hammer crushes his head. Again. A sword slits open his belly. Again. Poison slows his blood. Again. An archer gets him through the eye. Again. A massive snake’s great fang pierces him. Again. His body is dashed on the uncaring rocks of Ashina. Again.

A tired wolf returns home.

 

 

Emma takes blood from him on the steps of the old shrine. He looks away while she does this—it’s not that he’s squeamish, not after all he’s done. It just gives him too much to think about.

She is silent while she works, but that’s better bedside manner than he’s had most of his life. Absently, he takes a string of wooden beads from around his prosthetic wrist and toys with it. Hanbei had given it to him, wound it around his arm. They must have been painted red in the past, but now they’re chipped and faded, looking more like dried blood. Still, it’s pretty. He rolls one between his fingers.

“That’s nice.”

“Hanbei gave it to me.” He spins it on the string. Emma studies it, and him, closely. The scrutiny makes him uncomfortable. “He often gives me things.”

Emma looks at him with the closest thing to humor he has ever seen on her face. “Wolf,” she says, slowly, “it is impolite not to respond when you’re being courted.”

Some shinobi were highly trained in acting and disguise, to gather information more directly by moving among the enemy. They practiced until they could maintain total control of their expressions, so they might not give anything away by reacting.

It was clear from a young age that Wolf would never be one of these. His emotions are clear on his face, always.

They do the rest of her experiments in silence.

 

 

He ducks the arrow. Again. He turns the spear aside. Again. He deflects the hammer’s blow. Again. He leaps over the blade. Again.

Practice makes perfect.

 

 

Owl always taught him that practice was the best remedy for fear. Under his direction, they would train in the same technique for months. Do it until you no longer think anything of it. Face the same foe until they seem routine.

He has no practice in this.

Hanbei is waiting for him as usual, gives him a little wave as he crosses the clearing with purpose. What he clearly isn’t expecting is for Wolf to bow his head low.

“I apologize sincerely.” He says, trying to keep his voice steady.

Wolf reaches to the side but does not draw his sword. Instead he produces a fistful of flowers, slightly crumpled from their time in his bag. Blue and purple hydrangeas from Hirata Estate.

He had visited the ashes of that place recently, washed out with rain, and for the first time did not ache with loss when he saw the flowers blooming. Instead he had thought, _I wish he were here to see them,_ and then he had understood.

“For you.” He says, because he can’t say all that. Words have never come easy to him, and he was not trained for them.

Shock is writ large across Hanbei’s uncovered face. “I,” he starts, for once at a loss for words. “For me?”

His heart is beating fast like in battle. “For you.” He repeats, holding the flowers aloft.

A warm hand brushes his for a moment before taking the flowers. “You don’t need to repay me, you know. And you don’t need to apologize.” Tentatively, he raises his head.

For some reason he can’t quite look Hanbei in the eyes. “I know. It is a gift freely given.” He wonders if his companion ever learned the language of flowers. Hydrangeas, from what he can recall, convey sincerity.

They’re an answer to a question unasked. And when Hanbei gently holds them, his eyes soft and smiling, that feels like an answer too.

The flowers look better here in his hands than in that ashen ruin. “I have one more thing to give.”

“You asked my name, before.” Back then, he was a lost wolf who did not know who he belonged to. He has never had a name that didn’t belong to someone else. “Sekiro. Is my name now.”

“Sekiro.” Hanbei repeats it, turns the sounds over in his mouth. It sounds like his name now, properly. Spoken like a rare blessing. He smiles as he says it.

“Sekiro, I’m glad I met you.”

 

 

Sunlight dapples the mossy rocks of Mount Kongo. Sekiro allows himself to enjoy the feeling of sun and wind on his skin as he leaps through the air, grappling from rock to rock. Pleasant sensations are so rare these days.

Red leaves mingle with the blood of monks. They cannot catch him, not today. He soars above them, climbing stone to stone until he reaches his quarry.

A single persimmon tree grows here, drinking in the crisp air. Broad leaves catch the sun, fruit beneath them. It’s gleaming red and almost overripe. All the blood in the soil, turned into sweetness.

 

 

At the shrine, they melt snow to do the washing. He finds Hanbei like this, cleaning old bloodstains from his armor. His clothes are in tatters, the appearance of a man who didn’t intend to live much longer. Both of them are better at cutting things than mending.

“For you.” Sekiro announces his presence by sitting down next to him. He unfurls the bundle he’s made from his scarf, revealing the persimmons stuffed inside it. “For us. To share.”

Hanbei’s eyes widen. “Persimmons?” It’s clearly not a delivery he was expecting.

“Sweet. Good for the body.” _Reminded me of you_ , the part unsaid. His armor is set aside in favor of the fruit. He holds it delicately—it’s so ripe, the skin is ready to break at the slightest pressure.

Sekiro has never asked about his past, where he lived or who he fought beside. Certainly, his immortality resembles some of the monks he’s fought up the mountain. But by now Sekiro has seen what it means to be undying in many forms. Experiment or curse or divine gift, Hanbei is just Hanbei. His…friend, or something like it, who sits beside him and weighs a persimmon in his big and gentle hands.

He’s never removed his mempo, at least not that Wolf has ever seen, and he doesn’t expect it to happen now. Given the scars on his body—on his face, even—it’s plausible that he would rather not show whatever is there. “I can look away.”

Hanbei seems to consider it. His hand goes to the ribbons holding his mask in place, then drops. “I’ll save mine for later.” Sekiro nods in understanding. He knows the value of privacy well.

Without his armor on, Hanbei’s impressive collection of scars is more visible. They crisscross over his body, a field of wounds sprouting from him. It hurts to look at him—not from the physical pain they must have caused, but something deeper.

He’s staring. Hanbei catches him looking. “See something interesting? Or does it bother you?”

“No, only…you have endured much. I am sorry.”

“Hey.” He takes Sekiro’s hand in his, and he lets himself be taken, guided to rest upon a long scar that divides Hanbei’s shoulder. It must have nearly taken his arm off. His skin is warm to the touch. “It’s alright. Some of these are from you.”

It almost makes him laugh. What a pair they are, that this could be a comforting statement.

They’ve both survived a lot.

They might live a little longer yet.


End file.
